


Accidental Relations

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ginger Karkat, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and, for some reason, you’ve been told to deliver an oversized bundle of papers to the class asshole and seemingly perpetually hospitalised absentee student. Karkat… (That was his name, right? Well, whatever. You’ll just stick with Karkat.) Honestly, you didn’t want to do it; in fact, your extremely naïve and gullible friend, John, usually does it. However, due to the fact that he’s out with the stomach virus, you’ve been chosen to be the unwitting Hermes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Karkata Inti](https://archiveofourown.org/works/479498) by [magicites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicites/pseuds/magicites). 



> As noted, this work is staunchly rooted in the piece it was inspired by, _Karkata Inti_ (which is linked, so that you may indulge yourselves in one of my favourite JohnKat fics ever). I've based the story around several modern Humanstuck revisions of the characters. The main one is that I've translated Karkat's mutant blood into an agglomeration of genetic anomalies and disorders. I'm not going to name the exact conditions, seeing as I'll be taking a few artistic liberties with them. I will note, however, that the conditions are based on real conditions. (Feel free to research them, if you want.) Sorry for this verbose little rant...
> 
> (If I have errors in any part of this, please tell me. I'm ~~a bit~~ extremely scatterbrained.)

Room 354. PICU Level 2.  
Turn left after departing from the bland, white-walled elevator.  
Move down the hallway, towards the eighth room on the left.

You’ve followed the instructions, which were given to you by the receptionist, and, now, you stand before the plain oak door. The only thing upon the disinteresting wooden portal is a sheet of paper, held in place by a flimsy-looking layer of clear Plexiglas, which displays the patient information.

**Name: Karkat Vantas**  
 **Age: 17**

Beyond those two lines of text, you see only a fair deal of medical shorthand and sloppily-written medical jargon. From behind the rectangular entrance, through the small gaps surrounding it, you can hear a wide variety of noises—ticking, beeping, wheezing, and clicking amongst them.

For a minute, you consider leaving. You consider giving the work to the receptionist and going home. After all, you’re a Strider. Striders don’t handle things like this. No, you should be at home doing something more interesting than visiting the grouchy kid who gets sick seemingly every other day. And, really, what’s to prevent you from leaving? What’s to prevent you from such a callous decision, except for your deep-set loyalty and long-standing friendship with John?

Oh… Yeah… That second thing…

You take a deep breath and push the already-ajar door open.

Upon stepping inside, you find yourself staring at the familiar face from the back of the room. A clear plastic oxygen mask is strapped over his mouth and nose, its inner layer constantly fogging and defogging with each hoarse breath. The dark brown of his slightly sunken, shadow-rimmed eyes clashes against both his wildly pale complexion and his habitually messy mop of red hair.

“You’re not John,” he growls, his critical gaze running through you like a bullet through paper. “Who the hell are you?”

At this point, you hesitate. You feel a lump rising in your throat, but you’re not sure why—after all, you’re no friend of his. If anything, you’d be a bit relieved to see him leave. He does nothing but insult you and attempt to take dictatorial control of any group project he happens to have. When things don’t go his way, he blows his irritable top…

“I asked you a question, stupid. Who the fuck are you, and why are you in here?” His hoarse voice snaps you out of your thoughtful trance.

“Name’s David Strider,” you respond, your voice carrying its unmistakable Texan drawl. “Most people call me ‘Dave’, though, so… I mean… Guess you can call me anything you’d like. Here to give you the school shit you missed.”

“Great. I’ll call you Arrogant Douchebag. Now where the hell is John?” At this point, he folds his arms.

“Jesus Christ, dude, what the hell’s up with you fascination with Egbert?” you grumble, setting down the pile of papers on the bedside table as you do so. “He’s at home with some sort of stomach bug. Now, I ain’t a doctor, but I’m fairly certain it’d be bad for either of you to visit each other right now.”

To this response, the teen’s demeanour seems to slightly soften, and his ginger brows furrow concernedly. “Oh… Well… If you see him, tell him I’ll be asking the strange sky deity he believes in for his quick recovery.”

You can’t help but release of quiet snort of laughter as a reaction to his verbose response. “John told me you were wordy, but I wasn’t expecting to listen to a talking textbook.”

“I wasn’t expecting a douchebag Texan. So, there, we’re even,” Karkat mutters.

“That was a bit harsh,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug. “I take it you want me to leave, though…” As you’re speaking, you grab your worn-out red bookbag and, slinging it over your shoulder, turn to depart.

“No, I’m not saying you need to leave. I’m simply stating that you’re a colossal douchebag.” A short coughing fit interrupts his words but, as soon as it’s over, he continues, “That doesn’t mean I’m not bored and, admittedly, lonely enough to make an attempt at engaging in some form of cordial conversation with you.”

His response takes you by surprise.

Did the crabby asshole of the school just ask for you to stay with him? Did he really admit to his emotions?

You slowly nod and, after setting down your bag, pull a chair up to his bedside. Sitting in the vaguely comfortable chair, you fold your arms and lean back, preparing yourself for a conversation. “So… Any particular reason you’re calling me a douchebag while simultaneously asking me to stay here? Because, really, you’re confusing me more than Rose’s psychoanalysis shit.”

He surprises you further by replying with a weak smile. “How long did it take you to think up that simile, you stupid asslicker?”

“’Bout five seconds,” you counter with a shrug.

An awkward silence falls between you and him, allowing you to visually evaluate him. From the multitude of tubes and wires connected to him, you assume he’s probably heavily medicated and in a considerable amount of discomfort. The fact that there’s no sign of any such discomfort, however, hints at one of two things—he’s either a pro at hiding his emotions, or he’s used to it. You’re betting more on the latter…

“Exactly how long’re you banking on me sticking around this sterilised shinstitution?”

His usual scowl returns as he responds to this statement. “I don’t know. Stick around as long as you fucking feel like. I mean, the nurses and staff can remove your scrawny insincere ass from the premises at any point. And what the fucking hell is a ‘shinstitution’?”

“It’s a word of my own creating. Portmanteau of ‘shit’ and ‘institution’. So, you know, it’s a shitty institution. But you can just slam those two words together like a speeding motorbike hitting a bicycle and you get ‘shinstitution’,” you reply proudly.

To your explanation, however, Karkat returns a semi-scornful laugh. “You call _that_ a portmanteau? That’s one of the most volatile and misleading abominations of the English language to have ever had the displeasure of being presented to me. It sounds more like a clinical endowment for the research of shins, actually.”

Okay… To be honest, that was a bit of a blow to your usual shell of arrogant pride. But, you’re not going to let him see that. “Think whatever you wanna’, punk, but I can spin out some pretty ill beats.”

Again, he retorts with a laugh. “And by ‘ill’ I assume you mean ‘bad enough to induce nausea and general maladies’ amongst those unfortunate enough to hear such so-called ‘beats’.” Throughout his riposte, he animatedly adds several air quotes, all the while adding sarcastic emphasis in various places.

You respond with a semi-sincere indignant huff. “Fine then! If you’re going to be like that, then I’m bailing out of this place.” With this said, you throw your bag over your shoulder and depart as quickly as you possibly can.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is a bit of deviation... More like a lot. I have no idea where this came from, but here it is. Enjoy... I guess? IDEK. Feedback still welcome. (Also, I probably made more than one typo and overlooked it. If you see anything, feel free to point it out.)

You visited Karkat on a Friday but, though it’s Monday, and John is back at school, he hasn’t been cleared for hospital visitation yet. Thus, you find yourself stuck—yet again—delivering work to Karkat. You find yourself staring at that familiar door.

This time, however, a simple note has been posted. Held on by simple semi-transparent tape, the notification—scrawled in capital letters, upon piece of plain white college-ruled, three-hole paper—says, quite simply: “OUT FOR WALK”.

Upon reading this, you frown. You wander over to the receptionist, a perky woman by the name of Aranea, who cheerfully informs you that Karkat is, indeed, out on a walk. She tells you to wait about ten minutes and, despite the overwhelming feeling of wanting to get the hell out of the whitewashed prison you’re in, you stay.

You stay—stare at the bland paintings, all of which are hung upon equally boring faded beige walls. Flowers… It’s always flowers. Every hospital you’ve ever been to has had flowers in it. Why? Was it to make people feel more cheerful? If that was the case, then you’re certain that they’re doing a really crappy job. After all, the floral décor does nothing to elevate _your_ mood.

Either way, it’s not the time to think of that now, seeing as he’s just walked into the second floor reception area…

Before you can really think about what you’re saying, it comes out. “Who finally cleared you to go outside?” For some reason, a cocky smirk spreads across your face once you’ve asked this absurd, mocking question.

“Humph,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Who cleared your unintelligent presence in this building?”

“Damn. That was harsh,” you grumble.

He returns this statement with his own confident smirk. “Exactly my point. So, where the fuck is John?”

“Jesus Christ, dude. You talk like John’s your boyfriend or something.” A quiet chuckle escapes you as you attempt to imagine the obsurd hypothetical scene. John—the gullible, eager-to-help amateur magician you’ve known since preschool—being in even a remotely romantic relationship with _him_ —the perennially loud, angry guy standing before you. No… That would never work. (At least, it couldn’t under current conditions. And, even if it did, John would have to dump Vriska.)

Karkat replies with a frown, a sigh, and a shrug. “Definitely not. He’s a pleasant guy to be around, and I consider him a friend, but I’d never engage in any sort of amorous relations with the dweeb. No… I’m—how do you say it? I’m available, I guess. But, that doesn’t mean that I’d actually want for anyone to have to tolerate my despicable, discommodious presence.” As he speaks with such abnormal frankness about himself, he wanders leisurely back to his room. “Now, I’m not as well acquainted with you as I am to, say, Rose; but, if I were to be hedging bets upon your relational status, I’d have to say that you’re just a fucking lonely as I am. Care to make any more comments _now_ , smartass?”

His long-winded yet, at the same time, jarringly blunt statement takes you by surprise. It causes you pause. However, you quickly regain your usual level-headed coolness.  
 _“Now come on, dog, why you gotta’ be like that?_  
 _I’m just making some funny commentary, it’s not like I’m strapped.”_

To your amusement, his jaw drops at your unexpectedly dropped (and awesome as hell) beats. “What does any of that shit, which just came cascading from your irritatingly vain mug like the rank odour of freshly-farted gas, even mean!?” he sputters as he drops into one of the chairs in his hospital room.

 _“Well, it seems to me that you’re not in the know._  
 _You’ve got some stuff to learn, you asshole, but you’ve gotta’ take it slow._  
 _‘Cause my beats ain’t so simple as ‘it means this’ or ‘it means that’._  
 _They’re complicated motherfuckers, but they sure as hell are phat.”_  
You finish your impromptu rap with one of your usual smug grins.

He stares at you, blinks confusedly, and, after a minute or so, flips you the bird. With the one hand that’s not occupied in the action of making the obscene gesture, he makes a waving motion—as if he’s trying to rid himself of a pesky bug. “No. No. You know what? I don’t want to know. I do not want to fucking know.”

Normally, you’d stop here; but, for some reason, you don’t. No, today, you keep going. You push forward, throwing out another wild improvised rhyme.  
 _“You know what you need, my brother? I think that you need a little fun._  
 _You gotta’ do something new, ‘stead of sticking to your guns._  
 _Now what I want you to do, well, it sure as hell isn’t hard._  
 _I just want you to drop some beats; but it don’t have to be by the yard._

“Seriously, Dave, I have no clue what the fuck you’re spewing right now,” Karkat mumbles. You notice his furrowed brows, folded arms, and confused scowl. You notice his slightly dejected social disorientation and, for some reason, that only makes you go on even longer.

_“Drop some beats, spin a rhyme. I’ve gotta’ spell it out?_  
 _Damn, boy, you’re oblivious! I’ll say that without a doubt!_  
 _I just want you to loosen up, chillax, and drop a beat._  
 _You need to let it loose, say it loud, let it free.”_

He responds with a self-deprecating, bitter laugh. “Me? You want _me_ to formulate some sort of literary prose for you… on the spot? Are you fucking kidding me?”

 _“Hell no! I ain’t! Striders don’t ever lie._  
 _I’m just trying to help by getting you to let shit fly._  
 _See, you seem to keep it in; but, you gotta’ let it out._.  
 _You’re locking it away when it’s what you wanna’ shout.”_

At this addition, he rolls his eyes and, with a loud sigh, nods. “If I produce some form of a rhyme for your idiotic amusement, will you shut up?”

Seeing as you’re out of clever ideas for a reply, you merely return his statement with an affirmative nod.

“Fine,” he grumbles, chewing the bottom of his lip. “Just… Give me a minute. I’m not one of those stuffy-ass poetic fuckers… At least, I don’t consider myself to be.” After a minute or so, he makes as if to speak. However, he quickly shakes his head and withdraws whatever he was going to say. For the half an hour or so, he continues in this way—thinking of saying something, only to quickly withdraw before it’s even had a chance to be judged. However, he finally manages to force himself into joining your ludicrous lingual play.

 _“Dave, you’re fucking annoying; I’d flip my shit if you’d stop._  
 _‘Cause your rhymes are but nigh clever, passing just above word slop._  
 _You’re an asshole, a prick, a pretentious douchebag;_  
 _But I guess I owe you thanks for sticking with me, the class crab.”_  
Upon finishing this, he releases a relived sough. His formerly tense muscles relax, and his rigidly formal posture loosens up considerably. “Now, you have to keep your end of the deal. Stop with the goddamn rhymes!”

With a chuckle, you nod. You playfully raise your hands into the air. “Fine! Fine! You’ve got me! I guess I have to stop now; I mean, Striders never break a deal.”

“Striders apparently don’t have a rule about not being annoying pricks, either,” Karkat snickers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, I guess? Enjoy?

On Tuesday, John was cleared to return to the hospital. When he returned from that visit, he informed you that Karkat was going back home on Thursday.

Wednesday, acting on your instructions, he managed to procure a wealth of information regarding Karkat—his phone number, address, and birthday being only a small fraction of such details. Of all the information John managed to hornswoggle from the grouchy redhead, however, the most important is, by far, his pesterchum name: carcinoGeneticist.

It is with this new-found information that you, despite the fact that it’s nearly midnight on a Thursday, spam Karkat with numerous video chat requests. To your surprise, he responds after only eight requests.

carcinoGeneticist [CG] accepted your video chat request

Seconds after the message flashes across your computer screen, an image of Karkat appears.

His eyes are slightly bloodshot, his red hair more tussled than usual. From his nostrils, two short prongs extend, connecting to a tube, which leads to a clearly visible tank of oxygen. A quiet wheezing noise—likely, you suppose, from the aforementioned container—fades in and out of your computer’s audible range, and the dark shadows beneath his eyes seem only to have darkened since you’d last seen him. Nevertheless, he still has the energy to bluntly snap at you. “What the fuck do you want, you intolerable douchebag!?”

“I ‘dunno,” you reply with a smug grin. “I might ask you the same thing. I mean, it’s nearly midnight and you’re still up and fucking around on the computer.”

“Maybe because I can’t go to fucking sleep right now. Is that some sort of unspeakably terrible crime now?” he growls, raising a brow. “Don’t you have some sort of responsible legal guardian supervising you?”

“You mean Bro?” Upon saying this, you let forth a snort of laughter. “Like he’d wake up. Once he’s asleep, you can’t get the dickwad up for anything. What about you?”

He frowns, averts his gaze, and shrugs. “Dad’s out at work right now. Really, he’s not usually around… I mean… He wants to be, but he’s not… But, I guess it’s better that he be doing night shift and earning money than doing nothing and us being kicked out of our crappy-as-fuck apartment…”

“You’re in an apartment?” Being that you’ve always lived in one of your apartment complex’s three luxury accommodations, the news stirs up a good deal of interest within you. You squint at the screen, surveying the dimly-lit surroundings on Karkat’s end. However, it quickly becomes clear that there’s no way you’ll be able to make out very much detail from a pixellated image of the poorly lit room. Thus, you merely continue, hoping to coax some detail out of him. “So am I! You in the ones across the street from that screwy seafood restaurant?”

“Their food is fucking delicious, and they’re not ‘screwy’. The employees there are, for the most part, fairly decent people—more than you can say,” Karkat snaps back.

“That’s great. Do you live in the apartments across from it?” 

“Yeah… Why?” A frown crosses his face as one of his moderately bushy red brows questioningly arcs upwards.

“‘Cause I’m in one of the fancy top level places. You know, the suites? Where’re you?”

“About ten levels below you, in the discount studio apartments,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes. “Room thirteen, right beside the elevator.”

“Sounds pretty sucky,” you reply honestly.

“Of course it is. These shitholes have been or currently are infested with every disgusting thing a sadistic celestial being could think of…” He seems to prepare himself to say more. However, a half-minute coughing fit interrupts these plans.

Naturally, this elicits a good deal of concern from you. (After all, no matter how much you vainly try to keep up with your ‘cool’ act, you’re still a person capable of empathy.) Considering that you have to turn down the volume on your computer to keep from getting another noise complaint from the neighbours, though, you’re fairly certain that he’s not likely to hear your concerned inquiry. Thus, you wait.

You wait until the coughing’s died down enough for you to turn the volume back up. And, as soon as that happens, you speak up. “You okay, dude? Like… Didn’t they just treat you for some sort of lung shit?”

“I’m perfectly fine, and that’s none of your business,” he hoarsely snaps.

At this point, you come to the conclusion that you’ve annoyed him. Therefore, you quickly bid him a rushed farewell before turning off the computer and wandering to your bed, where your pensive consideration of what you've just seen eventually tires you to the point of actually going the fuck to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, i didn't actually read this over. yes, i'm lazy. sorry. if you find any errors, please tell me in the comments or just apparate to my house and punch me in the face whilst screaming about the annoying typos this is probably filled with.

The Friday bell rings. The customary stampede of eagerly escaping students rushes past you, forcing you against the locker-lined wall. Upon its dissipation, you finish gathering your things and depart. It’s the normal Friday afternoon schedule, the only difference being that, instead of going straight home (as you usually would), you take a detour to the nearby Starbucks.

The popular after school hangout is, as per usual, packed. Your trained and eager eye, however, manages to locate your target—a boy in your grade, clad in a sky blue hooded sweatshirt—without a minute’s hesitation. Though his hood is up, you can still easily make out the wild black hair beneath. Target identity confirmed.

You elbow your way through the crowd, eventually finding your way to the empty seat across from him. He takes no notice of you, however, seeing as he appears to be completely devoted to reading yet another book of stupid magic tricks. To remedy this, you speak up. “Lemme’ guess… Vriska got suspended again for beating someone up?”

He reacts exactly as you expected him to. His blue eyes turn their attentions to you, a bucktoothed grin spreading across his tan face. “Actually, she’s currently doing community service for beating up Sollux. So… You’re half right.” At this point, he dog-ears the page he’s on and sets the book aside. He folds his hands behind his head and tips his chair back a bit. “But, yeah, she’s not here right now. So, what do you want?”

“What do you mean ‘what do I want’? John, I’m mighty offended that you’re implying something about me that’s probably not very positive,” you reply with a touch of well-acted discontent, in an attempt to feign innocence.

John, however, doesn’t buy it. On the contrary, he responds by letting forth one of his trademark (and, admittedly, slightly annoying) laughs. “Dave, you’re bugging me on a Friday evening. You’re normally at home, befriending your right hand, by now. You want something.”

“Okay, that is gross and mostly untrue,” you reply flatly. To accompany this retort, you prop your shades up just enough for him to see you roll your eyes. “But, I get it. You know me. Act’s up. Yeah, I sure as hell want something; but, it’s not anything too big.”

Again, he replies with a snort of laughter. “‘Nothing too big’? Dave, that’s what you said the last time you wanted something—and, that time, the something was more like fifty dollars. But, I might as well amuse you for a bit. What is it?”

You, in return, let forth a truly indignant huff. “Look, that money was going to something totally worth it.”

“I gave it to you, and you spent it on a model lightsaber, you dork,” John snickers.

At this point, you can’t help but laugh. After all, it is a bit funny that you—Dave Strider, the epitome of vain coolness—spent one hundred dollars on a model lightsaber. “It makes sounds, lights up, and is totally ironic. But I’m here about Karkat…”

“I already got you his username!” John mumbles, “What else do you want!?”

“Well, you know him better than me. I figured you could tell me a few things ‘bout him. What does he like? What doesn’t he like? What’s up with him being grouchy and in the hospital all the time? When is he coming back to school? Y’know, things like that,” you reply as casually and rapidly as you physically can.

“Oh my fucking god, Dave,” John chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Well, yeah, I do know him better than you. So… Hm… Let me think about it…” He chews his lip thoughtfully for several minutes, all the while fiddling about with the left rim of his black rectangular-frame glasses. “Well… He likes some weird shit. Um… That movie with that guy who never wins and Oscar and the ginger who bears her boobs on screen… _Titanic_ … Yeah, he’s so in love with that movie that he might as well marry it. Next question?”

You can’t help but snicker at this revelation. “So he’s a romance guy? Great. Rose has a lot of those things… says she uses them for her weird psychobabble fuckery. Thanks. Um…” You pause, thoughtfully tapping your fingers against the faux wood table as you ponder your statement. Sure, he’s not here; but, you don’t want to come off as an insensitive asshole. Okay, well, you kind of can be an insensitive asshole, and John damn well knows that. Still, you’re fairly certain that, if he knows what the answer is, he’s been told to keep it secret… “What exactly is up with him?” you nervously mumble.

To this question, John shrugs. He takes a sip of the steaming, whip-cream-surmounted coffee he’s drinking, and replies with little fanfare. “I’m not exactly sure. Hell, I don’t think he is, either. I mean, it’s not something he tells everyone about. From the shit I’ve managed to get from him, though, it’s some genetic fuck-up. Really, you’re going to have to talk to him to figure that out.”

“Thanks for the info, then, dude,” you reply with a confident smirk as you throw your bag over your shoulder.

John’s chair returns to its intended position—all four legs on firmly grounded on the tiled floor—with a quiet thud. He calls out to your quickly receding figure, “Remember to text me, idiot!”

You momentarily turn, so that you’re against the crowd, and laugh. “I’ll send you the dick pics tonight, then!” you playfully respond. Then, with a quick farewell salute, you turn and allow yourself to be swept back outside by the departing high school crowd.

From there, you get into your red Volkswagen Beetle. Then, you drive back to your apartment complex.

Room 1… Room 2…

Room 5…

You turn left, as indicated by the sign, and finally come to a stop in front of a lone doorway. Something chitters and brushes past you, pressing its fur-covered body against your shoe. Rats and mice… Bro used to tell you about the nightmares he’d had with them during his days as a lower tier renter… Now, though, Bro tends to be indifferent to them. Of course, no rats inhabit the tenth storey floor. Okay… There was one when you were seven, but Bro decided to take it to the vet for vaccinations, after which it became the family pet for a year and a half.

No… You’re getting off track.

You calm yourself with a deep breath and knock on the door.

Seconds later, it swings open to reveal Karkat, his thin figure framed by the flickering lighting of the studio apartment. The quiet puffing you’d heard before is now clearly audible, the tubing from before now replaced by another clear mask.

“Just thought I’d drop by, y’know?” you reply calmly.

He stares blankly at you for about a minute, his mouth hanging slightly open as if he’s about to say something. Eventually, though, he lets forth a shallow sigh and steps aside. “Fine then. I guess you might as well come in,” he mutters with a blatant trace of reluctance in his voice.

As he speaks, you enter the musty room. The most prominent furniture is the broken bunk bed, with two of its four legs propped up by dictionaries and phone books. In the corner, a broken air conditioning rattled like thunder within its rusty casing. From above, the lights flicker like lightning. Another rat scurries past you and out the door, only for it to be caught by the loud snapping of a mousetrap a few feet later. He, however, seems indifferent to it all. Of course, you guess that’s only to be expected. After all, he’s _lived_ in these conditions for what you can only assume to be years.

“So…” you mutter as you further study the apartment. An old couch sits across from an outdated television. A bunk bed—three of its four legs supported only by a myriad of dictionaries and books of varying thickness—sits in the corner. The coffee table, its formerly glorious surface now covered in dents and scratches, is about five degrees too far to the left. To be completely honest, the entire place sucks; you’re certain he knows that, though.

“Yeah, sorry… This place is pretty shitty,” he shrugs. “I sleep over there, by the way.” As he speaks, he gestures towards the lower bunk, next to which sits a worn-out side table. Upon this side table rest about ten different pill bottles, all of them filled with multi-coloured prescriptions. “But, hey, I’m fairly certain that even your minuscule mental processing facilities are capable of processing such a blatantly obvious fact.”

“I wasn’t actually gonna’ say that,” you reply honestly, “But, yeah, it does…”

To this, Karkat counters with a halfway amused smile. “Dad’s still at work. It’s one of his long shifts. I’m sure he wouldn’t be too annoyed with coming home to an unexpected visitor, though, so I’m not going to bother wasting my energy on worrying about such a relatively minor inconvenience…”

“So what if your dad gets back and gets pissed off that I’m here?”

“He won’t. I know him well enough…” He seems to be ready to say more, though he never gets the chance. Instead, he coughs. Once at first. Then again. And again. And again, until his entire body shakes with each repetitive cough.

You, of course, are entirely thrown off by this. After all, you didn’t expect something like this to happen. He’d just gotten back from the hospital for some lung infection, hadn’t he?

No… Now isn’t the time to be thinking about reasons. You need to help. You register that much. But, what do you do?

“You okay, dude?” you mutter as you unconsciously shy a bit away from him.

He, in return, glances at you and rolls his eyes. The inside of his mask gathers and dispenses of the condensation from each cough, the fog fading rapidly into and out of vision. “Yeah… I’m fucking fantastic… right now,” he manages to wheeze between coughs. “Really, though… I am… Just give me minute.”

With a nervous nod, you respond. You do as he said and, sure enough, his breathing returns to normal within about a minute or so.

Once he’s regained control, he lets forth a ragged sigh. “I guess I should probably apologise for that. Thanks for not doing what most people do and freaking the fucking hell out. Most people just call 911 when this shit happens… I mean, I guess it’s probably a natural reaction to someone practically coughing up a lung; but, the well-meaning assfuckery gets pretty annoying after the first fifteen uncalled for hospital visits.” He shrugs, checks his watch, and glances back at you.

Oddly enough, as he does this, you notice something. You notice that his brow isn’t as furrowed as it usually is—that his usual scowl seems to have softened just enough to make a noticeable difference. These realisations, however, are short lived; for, almost as soon as they hit you, the normal scowl returns.

“You should probably go, though… It’s one of those days where I get to shoot myself up with enough chemicals to turn an elephant’s shit a putrid lime green. Thanks for visiting, though.” A hint of a smile seems to force its way onto his face for a moment, though it, too, fades rapidly.

He offers you a nod, gives you a gentle but firm push towards the door, and provides you with a seemingly genuine wave.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s been about two days since you were practically kicked out of Karkat’s studio apartment and, you find yourself sprinting to catch the bus that takes you home from school. Despite the seemingly irrelevant nature of the latter action, however, it just so happens to turn into something completely relevant as you manage to literally run into Karkat.

Logically, both of you end up sprawled out on the concrete sidewalk. Karkat, being the stationary element in the equation, ends up beneath you, taking the brunt of the impact. You quickly roll off of the shocked teen, however, and stumble to your feet. Simultaneously, you notice that you're too late—that the bus is completing its turn out of the bus loop and into the main road. You acknowledge that attempting to catch the mass transport driver's attention will do nothing but make you look like an flailing idiot and turn your attentions to making sure Karkat is okay (which, in all reality, is what you should have been doing, anyhow).

“God fucking dammit, dude!” he snarls as he accepts your outstretched hand, “I’ve always known those shades diminish your visual capacity, but I didn't think it was this bad.”

You sigh and roll your eyes at his attempt to be humorous. “You okay?”

“Well, I’d be much better if you hadn’t fucking trampled me like a goddamn castaway newspaper in the first place. What the hell were you running for, anyhow?”

"Bus,” you reply tersely. "I've missed it, though. Might as well start walking back..."

“I… Well… I have to get back home now, too. I mean… I was only out for my usual walk and… We both live in the same apartment complex, so… Why don’t we just walk back together?”

You'd been ready to leave alone and, to be honest, the offer catches you off-guard. “I guess that means you’re wondering if I’d mind walking back with you?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles.

“Why not?” you answer promptly, trying to reprieve yourself from the rather stupid clarifying question you'd just asked.

Upon hearing your reply, a hint of a smile flashes across his face; however, it’s gone long before you can rightly call it a true smile. Then, rather than talking, he shoves his hands into his pockets. He remains in this silent state of awkward withdrawal for about five minutes.

As you near the six minute mark, you finally decide to at least make an attempt at striking up some decent conversation. After all, it's pretty obvious that he won't be saying much of anything any time soon. “So exactly what’re you doing out here?” you inquire as you pick up your bag.

“Exercising,” he responds with a shrug. “It’s supposed to improve an ass-load of bodily functions and all that fantastic shit. I’d ask you what you were doing, but I’m going to rightfully assume that you’ll merely reply with some smart-ass comment.”

You can’t help but smirk at his statement. “Well dammit. I’d already gone and thought of the best reply, too. I guess I’ll just have to be sarcastic at some other point in this conversation.”

“I’ll be holding my breath in utter excitement, then,” Karkat sarcastically retorts.

“So,” you continue, purposefully disregarding the blatantly derisive statement, “If you take a walk every day, why haven’t I seen you around here before now?”

“I typically don’t go this way. But, for some heteroclitical reason, I decided to take this route today. Is that suddenly some sort of disreputable crime?”

“It sure as fuck is a crime. In fact, I’ll be dragging your ass off to jail now,” you reply with a light hearted snicker. “Back to being a little more serious, though, what’re you supposed to be doing this shit for? The exercise, I mean.”

“I’ve already answered that question; but, I’m sure your microscopic attention span was off in some other egotistic fantasy world at that point.” A faint smirk appears momentarily upon his face at this point. However, it makes a hasty retreat as he continues his statement. “Getting back to the question, though, it’s mostly for health reasons—mainly minor benefits in equally paltry things. Supposedly, it’s a long-term thing. Everyone says it delays my inevitable demise by some inconsequential amount, though I could really care less about that point. As far as I’m concerned, the fact that it makes me feel slightly less like a perpetually lazing pile of repugnant shit is the only worthwhile benefit.”

You can’t help but be caught off guard by his reply. For one thing, it’s surprisingly blunt. Sure, you knew the answer would have to tie back into whatever it is that keep sending him to and from the hospital; but, you didn’t expect him to say it in such a forthright fashion. Aside from that, it’s lengthy—or, at least, lengthier than you’re used to. “That makes sense, then…” Your response fades to an almost unbearably awkward silence, and you instinctively fall back a few steps. In a similarly instinctive fashion, you also cast your gaze towards the ground—an action which, considering your ridiculous nearly-opaque shades, is rather pointless.

At this point, Karkat intervenes with a frustrated uttering of what seems to be his favourite four-letter ‘F’ word and a slightly excessive apology. “I took that out a bit too far, didn’t I? Sorry… It… I was trying to keep it more upbeat than it usually is. I mean, I’m normally spurting this shit off to adults—namely, new doctors—and…” He pauses, filling the awkward silence with an aggravated growl. At the same time, he stops walking until your intent visual focus on the ground results in you unconsciously falling back in step with him.

Then, he continues. “I didn’t mean it as some sort of self-gratifying pity plea. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say… It probably sounded that way, though, knowing me… Really, I’ve probably already fucked this entire thing up so spectacularly, haven’t I?”

“You haven’t fucked this thing up yet,” you reply honestly. “You sure have monopolised the entire conversation, though; but, I don’t really mind. I do the exact same thing. If you don’t want to explain, don’t. It’s just that this type of shit isn’t what I’m used to hearing about every day, y’know?”

“Nice to know that this doesn’t freak you out, then. Next time I’ll just go into a nice story about surgery or something like that,” he retorts with a nervous smile. “Anyhow, I’m pretty sure you’re sick of talking to me by now. Not to mention the fact that we’re at the apartments…”

You let a bemused smile through your emotional filters and return his statement with a light-hearted reply. “Well, next time, I guess I’ll just have to gorge you with my awesome-as-hell voice.”

“Dear god, I hope you don’t. I’d much rather listen to the sound of a thousand nails scarping across the surface of a god-forsaken chalkboard,” he counters, laughing.

Partially due to the fact that you have no real comeback for this statement, you skip to offering him a simple nod of farewell. Then, you make your way back to your penthouse apartment.


	6. Chapter 6

As far back as you can remember, you’ve always wanted to be a famous rapper or disk jockey. You wanted to be rich and famous, just like your brother. Everything he did, you did. A kind of “dumbass see, dumbass do,” you suppose. If he crushed a soda can, you would, too. If he kicked a rock down the sidewalk, you’d find your own to kick. So, naturally, when your ten-year-old self saw him nonchalantly lighting up a cigarette, you did the same.

Now, though, you’ve realised that you probably shouldn’t have done _everything_ your brother did. After all, you’ve done some pretty stupid things for the sake of trying to imitate Bro. Sure, he’s still the coolest person in the world; but, you’ve come to realise that he’s still human. He makes mistakes. He’s a twenty-something-year-old who took you into his custody after your parents died. His social life fell to shit afterwards and he picked up bad habits. Now… Well, now is just one of those times that it all hits you.

It’s one of those times again; it always happens around this time. When the anniversary of your parents’ deaths pops up, he always seems to lose it.

You’ve learned to live with it. You let him have his three nights of getting disgustingly drunk and smashing everything he can get his hands on, while you find refuge in the safety of your locked room.

This time, though, it’s different. This time, you feel like doing something. You’ve sneaked out through the fire escape, going through the window to avoid triggering the alarm, and found your ways to the front of the building. You then proceeded to wander around the the eastern side of the building. You then found a rather attractive spot, just beneath a slightly cracked window, and made yourself comfortable.

From then, to now, it’s been at least two or three minutes. You’re nearly halfway through the toxic roll of tobacco and, after a deep sigh, you ponder going back inside.

In the end, you decide against doing so. You figure it’s best to just let him keep at it. He’ll cool off eventually; he’ll pass out. Thus, with this decision made, you proceed to make yourself as comfortable as possible. You take a deep drag from your cigarette and lean against the wall, preparing yourself for another minute or so of calm relax—

“GOD FUCKING DAMMIT! WHY ARE THERE SO MANY MOTHERFUCKING BUMS ON THIS SIDE OF THIS SHIT PEN!?” The sudden, hoarse yelling causes you to jump, and the fact that the window behind you flies open makes you nearly shit your pants. Needless to say, the idea of having some relaxing time to yourself is now a distant memory. “CAN’T YOU FUCKING READ THE PISS-POOR PRINTER PAPER SIGN!? NO SMOKING NEAR THIS WINDOW. I DON’T GIVE A FLYING SHIT WHERE YOU SMOKE, YOU LAZY BUM, BUT DON’T DO IT HERE!”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” you grumble, brushing yourself off as you stagger to a standing position and face the window. “Who the fuck are you, anyhow!? Is there some sort of new rule that I can’t smoke outside without having some screaming asshole all up on my shit about doing bad things and— Karkat?” The name slides off your tongue far more gracefully than the way you just so happen to be realising that you’re face-to-face with _him_.

He, however, seems perfectly fine. “Yes, it is, you moron. Now, put that damned thing out before I put it out by shoving it up your ass, you fucking idiot!” he snarls.

“Fine! Fine!” You raise your free hand in the air and smother the smoking tobacco by pressing the cigarette against the wall. “There. Done. Now, how the hell is your dad still asleep!?”

“He’s not home, you numbskull. Why the fuck are you just sitting on your complacent ass and huffing toxic chemicals outside of my window!? You have a fucking penthouse, you moron. Go there and smoke or something!”

You shrug. “Bro’s drunk as fuck and I’m not going back there while he’s stumbling around like a decapitated zombie,” is your honest reply.

This reply is what, to your surprise, makes Karkat’s glare soften a bit. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and sighs. “Sorry… I didn’t realise that—”

“It’s only for a few more hours, dude. He’ll pass out soon. It’s fine.”

“Really? Because I’m not all that… I… I wouldn’t be completely opposed to the idea of offering you respite from your brother’s intoxicated stupidity,” he murmurs nervously.

His reply catches you off guard.

Sure, you’d love to stay with him; but, why is he offering? Could it be that…?

No! That’s preposterous! That’s a load of 'deep-fried ‘bullshit’ with a fresh-out-of-the-jar topping of ‘hell fucking no’.

He’s a friend. He’s a good friend. He’s like John. He cares about you, that’s all. After all, no one could really like you; could they?

“Fine. Give me a minute.” You reply, force the thoughts back and, then, as fast as you can, you dart off to the front door. You, being accustomed to the place, easily find your way in through one of the side entrances. From there, you wander down the hall and up to the door to Karkat’s studio apartment…

* * *

 

In the flickering light of his crappy studio apartment, you can faintly make out the now-familiar clear mask over his mouth and nose. His hair is as chaotic as it always is, and the shadows beneath his eyes are still readily apparent. It’s fairly obvious that he’s making a conscious effort to breathe normally, though the hoarse wheezing seems to indicate some degree of failure.

He greets you with an initially curious glance, though, upon seeing the worn-out bomber jacket you happen to be wearing, his expression changes to a familiar smirk. “Nice jacket, douchenozzle. You getting ready to join in on the blitz or something?” he snickers.

“Nice shirt,” you immediately shoot back, aiming your criticism at the torn shirt he’s wearing, “Getting dressed up for the train hopper banquet?”

To your surprise, he responds with an unnaturally attractive smile. You assume the attractiveness has to do with the fact that he rarely shows such emotion; but, you can’t help but acknowledge the fact that you can’t take your eyes off of his grin. Then, he laughs. It’s more a quiet chuckle than a traditional laugh, though it’s still a shockingly wonderful experience.

“Actually, I am. I’m hitching myself a one-way ride to the No-Assholes-Allowed Hotel, an establishment to which you wouldn’t be accepted,” he retorts with a wink. “Anyhow, I’m going back to sleep now. So, hey, do whatever the fuck you want. Just try not to break anything…”

At this point, he turns and wanders off to his bed, which is located in the room’s north-eastern corner. As he does so, you can hear him muttering, “This shit place is already broken enough, anyhow…”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to admit that I have no idea how to speak Spanish. I only kinda' know how to speak French. But this is just a bit of fluff. If I made any blaring mistakes, please inform me. M'kay, that's all.

“Get the fuck up, asshole.” The familiar voice pulls you from your slumber and, with a yawn, you slowly wake. Unfortunately for you, it seems that the speaker isn’t satisfied with your speed. In fact, it hits you all too late that he’s actually tilting the couch so that you end up rolling off of it, onto the hardwood floor. Even after that, though, he apparently deems it necessary to provide you with a little more incentive; as, when he passes by, he gives you a gentle kick to the shoulder. “It’s almost noon and I don’t even remember telling you you could stay here this long.”

You sigh and open your eyes, allowing them a moment or so to adjust before you stare upwards and look at the figure towering above you. The light, which shines on him from behind, seems to cast a shadow that manages to make his vibrant red hair appear as a kind of auburn-brown. From the outline of his clothes, he seems to be wearing a baggy pull-on sweatshirt. One of his hands is stuffed into the pocket of the aformentioned sweatshirt. The other hand seems to be wrapped around a rickety-looking IV pole, from which a drip bag filled with some sort of clear medication hangs.

Wait… Why are you noticing these things? He’s just Karkat. He’s a friend…

“I don’t remember you telling me any time I had to get my ass out of here, though, so… Your fault,” you reply, forcing yourself to focus more on the conversation.

“Why don’t you just shut your mouth and get yourself some food,” he snickers as he wanders over to the kitchen area.

You, in the mean time, stumble to your feet and wander over to him.

You find your gaze wandering towards him. You find yourself watching him. You find yourself noticing things. For instance, you quickly notice he has obvious experience with cooking; or, at least, the ease with which he handles the supplies seems to be indicative of such a presumption…

He turns to you, rolling his eyes at your surprise, and hands you a cup of coffee. Then, to your surprise, he confidently recites, “ _Pour tu: une tasse de connard fumant_.”

“Was that… French?” you grumble, raising an amused brow as you take a sip of the commonplace breakfast beverage.

“No, it was fucking Icelandic. _Yes it was French_ , you dense piece of molding driftwood. Before you ask, it means: ‘for you, a cup of steaming asshole’. Alternately, you could take it as meaning ‘for you, a cup of steaming stupid’. Literally, it’s: ‘for you: a cup of asshole steaming’. You choose the translation you like the best,” he responds with a smug grin.

“Well thanks for the lesson, _monsieur_ ; but, I’m more interested in knowing how the hell you even know that.”

“I took French when I was still in school. And, don’t forget, there’s this magical new invention called the internet!” His sarcastic response is accompanied by equally derisive jazz hands.

“I took Spanish,” you reply offhandedly. “For example… _Hueles a mierda_ , which means—”

“It means ‘you smell like shit’. I know some Spanish, too, you presumptuous ass,” he snickers.

To this comment, you reply by rolling your eyes and wandering over to the sofa. You find your shades resting on the side table and, after putting them on, turn your attentions back to Karkat. “Really now? Well…”

At this point, you find it necessary to dig back through the piles of shit that clutter your mind. You rummage around a bit and, after a second or so, manage to pull forth a small, metaphorical box of dusty memories. “ _Como chingas_ ,” you haphazardly respond in slightly botched Spanish.

“Clever. Brief and to the point. Hm… What can I say that could _possibly_ top such an _original_ insult?” he retorts as he strokes his chin in obviously fake thought. “ _Enlèves ton tête de ton cul_.”

“ _Jodete_ ,” you immediately respond.

“ _Va te faire foutre. Tu es un connard stupide, non?_ ”

By this point, you have nothing more to say. Most of Spanish you’ve learned has long since been dumped from your memory. You, seeing no other option, decide to admit defeat. “Fine! You win! You’re officially the superior linguistics nerd. Happy now?”

He, in return, snickers. “If it means that I bested your insufferable ass in something, then I’ll say yes. Now, it’s been a pleasure having you— Ah… No, that’s a lie. So I’ll just skip over the sugar-coating and say that your ass needs to be gone soon. I’d say I’m sorry but, again, that would be lying.”

You roll your eyes at this response, though you still comply with the order. “In that case, maybe I’ll run you over later,” you comment as you put on your shoes and make a poor attempt at fixing your messy hair.

“Great, I’ll be sure to call GEICO afterwards,” he shoots back.

“That seems like a real threat. I should report you to the police for making a violent threat against my life.”

A seemingly bemused chuckle from Karkat’s side momentarily interrupts the banter. However, he quickly retorts to your idiotic statement with one of his own. “Awesome. I’m sure they’ll take you and your stupid raps seriously.”

“They’re not stupid! They’re fucking art.”

“Well, they’re definitely fucking the _definition_ of fineart up the ass. Now, get your insufferable ass out of my apartment!” Karkat replies as he gives you a gentle shove towards the door. “My dad’ll be home soon, and I’m pretty sure he won’t be too pleased to find some ragtag asshole has been sleeping on his sofa.”

By now, you’ve managed to catch a glimpse at a clock. Assuming that the time is correct, you need to get home. Thus, you force yourself to part with Karkat. You offer him a snide, somewhat half-assed remark. Then, you wander off to the penthouse apartment you share with your undoubtedly hungover brother.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't say I haven't warned you, because I'm doing it right now. This fic has now taken its big turn and, if you just liked the fluff, I suggest you not continue. I mean, you can. I'm just saying that this'll be getting a little darker from this point on. I don't know how I'll end this, as a warning. As of now, at least.

After spending about three hours hanging out with your hungover-as-fuck brother, you decided that enough was enough. You wandered off to your room, where you spent the remaining hours of the day. As far as you can remember, you fell asleep just after midnight…

Now, however, it’s about three in the morning. It’s a Sunday. Or, at least, you think it’s a Sunday.

What day was it that you saw Karkat?

No… Why are you judging the days by _that_!?

Well, no matter, seeing as you’re not going openly admit the reasoning for this judgement of date. You can, at the very least, say that it is definitely a Sunday. After all, you saw Karkat two days ago, on a Friday….

Today, though, your main focus is John. Why? Because, for once, his time isn’t being hoarded by Vriska. For once, you have the chance to actually _hang out_ with him. Just you and him. Like it used to be before that weird spider bitch started whoring out all his free time.

You, naturally, decided that taking him out to play minigolf was the perfect idea. No! _You_ don’t like minigolf. It’s a stupid kid’s game. No, it’s _John_ who loves it. Not you. You most definitely don’t like minigolf. It’s a stupid, stupid game.

What you _do_ like, though, is looking cool in front of John. So, naturally, you happen to be loudly protesting his scorekeeping at the current moment.

“No, Dave, you’re losing by ten. I’m not keeping score wrong,” he replies with a bemused, buck-toothed grin. “But I’ll drop your score by five to make you feel better.”

“To make me feel better!?” you sputter back. “No, you’ll give me back those five points because there’s no way I could lose to you and I _deserve_ those five points.” As if to emphasise your point, you turn and take a poorly aimed shot at the hole. Your hopes of making it in like a badass are dashed, however, by the fact that you merely end up sending the golf ball flying far out of the parametres of the current hole. In fact, you actually manage to launch it outside of the minigolf _course_ , over the fence, and into the oversized street drain across the street.

“Well, it went into something, so… I mean, that was just a spectacularly awesome failure, so I’ll knock off a few points just for that,” John snickers in response to your poorly planned attempt at looking awesome.

“I _meant_ to do that, actually,” you lie.

Your blatant lie is, unsurprisingly, met with a brief bit of critical cacchination from John. “Yeah, of course you did. Now move to the next hole before the angry soccer mom behind us starts to beat us up because her kid’s having a throwdown about not being able to get to this hole, moron.”

“You just want an excuse to change the score,” you retort.

John rolls his eyes at you, grabs your wrist, and drags you off to the next hole. He sets up his shot, aims, and makes a few practice swings. Then, he effortlessly manages to get an ace. He records his score, takes a sip of the bottled soda you’d purchased at the entrance, and raises an expectant brow towards you. “So, yeah, you can take a shot any day now.”

“Sweet baby Jesus, man. I’m going! Stop bugging me! You’re like my nagging cousin. Nag nag nag. Do your homework, pay attention in class, stop talking about how stupid John is.” You take a haphazard swing and manage to score your own hole in one.

“Nice shot. Get the ball and… Oh fuck, we’re going to the last hole. And it has a water obstacle. I’ll go get more balls…”

“Of course you will. You definitely need them, Egbert,” you respond with a smirk. (He opened the doors for it. Really, the way he said it was practically _asking_ for such a stupid response.)

Being John, though, he doesn’t really mind your typical adolescent humour. In fact, he even responds with a snort of laughter. “I’ll get extensions for yours, too. Don’t worry.” At this point, he offers you a wink before wandering off, though he returns seconds later with about five extras.

“Great,” he exclaims upon his return, “We’re ready! So, you first, or me?”

“You.”

“Mhm. Just let me…”

As with the last hole, he drops the ball. He aims his shot, takes a practice swing, and quickly hits another hole in one. “Done.”

“Great, because I totally didn’t notice that your ball went down the hole just then. I was only watching it as it did that, you know,” you sarcastically respond as you drop your own golf ball and take your first shot. You watch eagerly as it makes a straight line for the hole, only to hit an unexpected bump in the felt and veer off to the side and, as John predicted, straight into the water.

“Dammit,” you mumble under your breath.

You grab another from John, drop it, and shoot again. This time, it travels right _around_ the hole, looping around the rim before stopping just short of the water.

“That’s two shots, right?”

“Three, adding the water shot penalty. But you said those were stupid, so I won’t count the penalty,” John replies smugly.

“Oh, shut the hell up already,” you growl as you take aim at the hole and, as carefully as possible, hit the ball. You then watch as it slowly rolls to its target and, after a few seconds, drops in with a slightly resonant _plunk_.

“Awesome! Now get off the—”

“GET YOUR STUPID BUTT OFF OF THE COURSE. THERE ARE OTHER PEOPLE TRYING TO PLAY ON THIS COURSE BESIDES YOU, YOU MORON!” screams the aforementioned soccer mom, as she threateningly brandishes her golf club.

“Oh sweet shit,” you grumble as John pulls your slightly shocked corpreal being off to the side.

“Yeah, Dave, I told you I wasn’t kidding about that soccer mom. Should’ve listened,” he comments offhandedly. He mutters the numbers to himself and, after a bit of quick calculating, announces the score. “Well, we played nine holes. The par is twenty-one. I scored nineteen and you scored… um… twenty seven.”

“I did _not_ score twenty seven!”

“You’re right,” John chuckles, “Your actual score, with penalties, is thirty five.”

“Just shut up before I punch that stupid grin right off your face, Egbert,” you snarl in an admittedly unthreatening voice.

It is at this point that John opens his mouth to respond. His words are cut off, however, by the sound of his phone ringing. He fishes the cracked iPhone from his pocket and stares at the caller name for a moments before actually answering the phone.

“John Egbert on the phone,” he mutters as he motions for you to be quiet.

You can hear faint mutterings from the other end.

“Oh? Hi Mr Vantas, what’re you calling—?”

He’s cut off by the other end’s indistinct muttering again and, by the time the interruption is over, he looks about ready to drop dead on the spot. However, he manages to force whatever it is that’s bothering him to the back of his mind long enough to calmly respond, “Thank you for informing us, Mr Vantas. I'll be there as soon as possible.”

“Vantas?” you grumble, raising a brow. “Karkat?”

“Yeah. We’re supposed to meet him in the hospital. Well, _I_ am. Apparently, he gave specific instructions to not let you in.” As soon as he finishes saying this, he turns and begins to dial another number.

You, though personally offended by the apparent instructions from Karkat’s end, wisely decide that now is not the time to use John as a mediator. Instead, you pull your out your own phone, dial for Bro, and simply ask for him to pick you up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is a really short chapter. Sorry. >_

Room 203. Postoperative ICU.

You were directed here after coming in to see Karkat.

You came in to see Karkat because John called you.

John called you because Karkat had instructed that you be summoned if his health started to rapidly deteriorate.

You find yourself running through these facts over and over again. The logical conclusion is, of course, that Karkat’s probably… No. You’re not even going to consider that as an option. That’s ridiculous. Karkat’s a fighter, right? That’s what John said. After all, he’s five years past his predicted due date.

Still, the facts are right in front of you. Or, rather, he is.

He’s propped against a formidable army of over-steralised pillows, unresponsive. Within just two days, he’s gone from being fine to being stuck back into the hospital, breathing and eating through tubes.

If you’re going to be completely honest with yourself, it’s unnerving. Hospitals alone have always freaked you out. They’re large, constantly busy buildings of decay and death. You’ve never liked being in one. You’ve never liked seeing anyone in one. And you sure as hell don't like seeing him in one.

Even so, you bring yourself to sit down by his bed, your hand resting on the siderail. You quickly find yourself looking at him, studying the way his brows seem to be creased into a perpetual scowl. You come to notice how his unkempt red hair sticks in every direction, each strand moving at the slightest of provocations.

Your somewhat creepy observation is cut off, however, by the sound of the door opening. You quickly turn, and recognise a man who looks like a more mature version of Karkat, save for his dark brown hair and reddish-brown eyes, standing in the doorway.

“No one told me there was someone else visiting in here…” he mutters awkwardly, averting his gaze as he rubs the back of his neck. “But… Um… You look too young to be a doctor or anything, so…?”

“I—” you pause and bite your lip. Logic dictates that this man is somehow related to Karkat.

For one thing, he _looks_ like him. He even acts a bit like him—has that same, awkward, shy air about him. His voice even seems similar. Furthermore, he’s not dressed like a doctor. In fact, he’s wearing a plain red windbreaker and a pair of blue jeans. You can't fuck this one up. You've only got once chance at making a good impression on this guy.

“Well… I mean, I’m not a doctor or anything. I’m just visiting. Name’s Dave. I’m a friend of Karkat’s and… Y’know, I might just leave now. Yeah, that’d probably be a great idea for me. I’ll just be going,” you mutter as you dash for the door, hoping to get past the man before he could think anything of the encounter.

“Oh! No, you don’t have to leave. I just didn’t know anyone was in here,” the man responds apologetically. “I’m Karkat’s dad. Most people tend to call me Crabdad, for some stupid reason. Anyhow, your last name doesn’t happen to be Strider, does it?”

“Yeah… Dave Strider…”

“Really?” At this point, the man takes a seat in the other chair and faces you. At the same time, you notice him fiddling with a slightly rusty wedding band. “Karkat’s talked a lot about you recently, you know. Actually, he won’t shut the hell up about you.”

“He… has?” You try and force back the rising blush as you reply.

“Mhm. He seems to really like you. At the very least, he thinks you’re pretty cool.”

By now, you’re a bit shocked. You hadn’t expected to run into anyone else in the first place, much less Karkat’s elusive father. The fact that he just so happens to be informing you of Karkat’s high opinion of you only adds to the confusion.

What were you supposed to say? You'll have to decide soon enough, or risk seeming like a rude idiot.

You open your mouth to speak, only to be cut off when the man’s phone rings.

“Oh shit,” he grumbles as he fishes a battered flip phone from his pocket. “Well, it’s been nice meeting you and all. I have to go, though.” He flashes you an awkward smile and exits, leaving you alone once more.

From that point onward, you merely continue as you had been before. You switch between watching him and playing games on your phone. Around ten, you’re kicked out by the nurses. You return home and fall into an uneventful slumber.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should probably be titled "I really suck at going back and checking things". So, hey, if a typo completely ruins the melancholy mood I'm going for, please do say so! Tissues and extra tissues should be available pending the ending of the next or almost-next chapter. Thank you for riding the "I'm a butthole who likes to turn fluff into pools of salty tears" express! We hope to see you again soon!

It’s only been one week since Karkat was admitted to the hospital and, according to the assholes riding around on their medical degree high horses, you shouldn’t be getting your hopes up; actually, they’re all saying you need to start lowering your expectations. What baffles you, however, is that they’re saying this even _after_ he’s defied the odds. He woke up only two days after his admission; the fact doesn’t matter to them, though. He’s just burning off the little time and energy he has left. In fact, they’re even giving estimates of when it’ll happen—right down to the minute, in some cases of egotistic confidence. Everyone and their goddamn poodle seem to be betting against Karkat, and you’re getting sick of it. Even his dad has started to join them. People have even stopped visiting, figuring that he’ll probably flatline sooner or later. 

You, however, still stubbornly cling to the delusional idea that everything will turn out fine. Overoptimism. That’s what you hate; but, right now, it’s what’s keeping you going. In the back of your mind, you know what will happen. You know it’s _going to_ happen. Not now, though. It won’t happen now—it _can’t_ happen now.

As if to validate this point, you’ve constantly found yourself sneaking affirmatory glances at the multiple vital monitors. You’ve constantly forced yourself to stay awake night after night, hoping that he’ll make a sudden turn for the better. You’ve completely forgotten about your personal needs, actually. Sure, you know it’s unhealthy; but, you justify it by saying it’s for him. You wouldn’t be taking such shitty care of yourself otherwise, right?

You sigh and glance at the clock, pushing away these absurd thoughts. Nine. It’s nine in the morning.

According to five of the doctor’s predictions, he’ll probably slip back into his former state of disconnect today. You, however, have invested every last bit of hope in him pulling through.

It’s weird, really.

It’s weird how you’ve become so intrinsically entanled in the life of someone you’ve known for less than a year. How this kid—someone you’ve long believed to be little more than a class-skipping asshole—has managed to capture your attentions so wildly. Why him?

How is it that you’ve managed to send your entire life into orbit around him?

What about him makes you feel so strongly connected to him?

Where is it that all of this even started?

You’d gone in to give the kid his homework and, somehow, he managed to find his way into your closed circle of friends.

 _No!_ … Those thoughts aren’t important right now.

It is at this point that a well-needed distruption breaks your circuitous train of introspective thought.

A loud clanging noise, accompanied by the sound of a jammed polyurethane wheel dragging across the tile floor, pulls you back to reality. You come to remember the past few hours—how Bro had dropped you off yesterday evening, and you stubbornly stuck around through the night.

Your sluggish, underslept mind registers the presense of one of the less pleasant nurses, mostly by the potent smell of outdated perfume radiating from her body.

“Come on, kid, wake up,” the nurse grumbles to Karkat. She tosses something haphazardly onto her crash cart, causing it to emit a loud, reverberating clang. “We don’t have all day, kid. I have more important things to be doing and I’m already in enough shit as is.”

You sigh and avert your gaze, forcing back your frustrations. You remind yourself that if—no, _when_ —Karkat returns to normal, he likely won’t remember any of this shit. It’s only for now. He’ll be back to normal in no time.

For a solid twenty minutes, you amuse yourself with similar fantastical ideas and countless chimerical hopes. In fact, to further prove your point, you go so far as to ignore fact. You reject what you see. Or, more accurately, you refuse to see it; for, even after the nurse leaves, you refuse to look at him. Instead, you idly fiddle with some of the extra fabric on your pants.

This introspective avoidance is broken, however, by something you haven’t heard in a week: a sound, for which you've longed to hear again.

“Dave?” His voice is muffled, barely more than a wheezing whisper of slightly distorted breaths; but, you understand him. You manage to pick up on the uncharacteristically quiet variation of the familiar voice and, by instinct, your gaze turns towards its source.

“Hm?” you respond simply.

A faint smile spreads across his face. “Don’t just sit there, you fucker…”

His response manages to draw the week’s first smile from you. You obey him, making your way to his bedside and resting your hands on the bed’s siderails. “You’re finally talking, and the first thing you do is call me a ‘fucker’? I’m flattered.”

“You should be… How long’ve you been there?”

“A day… Two… Maybe three?” is your nonchalant response.

“I figured.” He pauses to offer you a melancholy smile. “Go home. You’re wasting your time.”

“I… I’m not wasting my time,” you violently retort. “You’re just giving up. You’re going with what all the other people are saying, and I say you’re bigger than that, dude. I mean, you’re pretty dang coherent right now, aren’t ya?”

“Dammit, you stubborn ass. Go home. Sleep some.”

“But what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. Go home, or I’ll call up the nurses and _make_ you go home.”

“I—” You try and think of some sort of rebuttal, only to realise that he’s right. It’s not your choice to make. As much as you hate to admit it, you can’t save everyone. “Fine…”

“Great. Before you go, though… Just this one time, would you mind taking off those douchey sunglasses? It won’t kill you.”

His words bring your hasty departure to an abrupt halt, and manage to attract your gaze back to him. You turn to him and chew thoughtfully on your lip. By now, you’ve started to slowly accept the facts. You know what he’s implying and, honestly, you want to do it. The problem is that you can’t bring yourself to actually make it happen.

“Maybe tomorrow,” you eventually respond.

“I’ll be eagerly awaiting that moment of sweet victory, then,” he replies with another faint smile. “Now, get your stupid ass out of here.”

“Fine! I’m going! Jesus fucking Christ, you think you’re the hospital police or something!”

“Great! Good riddance, you putrid piece of douchey shit!” Somehow, his accompanying smile manages to brighten your mood. In fact, you can’t help but respond with a similar look of contentment as you quietly exit his room.

You pull the door closed, step into the elevator, and dial Bro’s number.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this is the final chapter. Sorry, guys. I just don't write long things. (Hehe. That sounds dirty.) Yeah, so maybe get some nice tissues and a pet to snuggle with... I don't know. I doubt my writing can be that emotionally impactive, but just in case. (Please report any errors caused by my shitty checking. Thank you!)

Your name is Dave Strider. David Strider, to be more formal. That, however, isn’t anything to give a shit about. Honestly, you couldn’t care less. The more important thing is _his_ name. The most important thing is to remember  _his_ name.

His name is—no… His name _was_ Karkat Vantas.

Within less than a year, he had found his way into your usually closed-off heart. He’d found a weak spot and, with his own brand of loud profanity, he forced his way into your life. He came just when you needed him—when it seemed that your best friend, John, no longer cared for you. When you thought Vriska had replaced you as John's friend. He was something brilliantly unique in what you percieved to be a world of cookie-cutter regularity.

He managed to make you fall for him, only to leave you alone in a world of unfair loneliness.

Only five hours after promising you that he’d be okay—after reassuring you that you could go home and rest—he died. According to what you’ve learned since then, he'd been admitted into the hospital because his body rejected some sort of transplant. He ran into major complications around midnight, and died in his sleep an hour later.

Three days after his death, you forced yourself to go to the viewing and, to be honest, you still regret that decision.

You saw him spread out in a cheaply made coffin, surrounded by stupidly fragrant flowers of every kind. You stood amongst the few others who bothered to show up, whose numbers couldn’t have possibly exceeded twenty, and bottled up your emotions. All the grief and frustration… You shoved it all into a undersized bottle and sealed it closed, only to shatter it and allow its contents to flood forth in the privacy of your own room.

Two days afterwards, the funeral was held. Again, your forced yourself to go.

His coffin was draped with more idiotic floral arrangements and lowered into a rectangular canyon. Some sort of religious figure gave the coffin some kind of unecessary blessing and left.

A reception was held afterwards, but you refused to go. Instead, you returned home. You went home, retreated to your room, and proceeded to let every negative emotion you’d ever held inside of you out.

Soon after that, they found some unofficial notes from Karkat, all of which detailed arrangements and basic outlines of what he wanted to happen after he died. Seeing as it was probably the closest to a will anyone would find, the few people who still cared enough decided to obey it as if it were a legitimate, legal document.

His things were distributed as he intented them to be. All of his old books went to Rose. Both John and Jade were given half of his movie collection. His baking supplies and cook books went to Gamzee. The list goes on, and you could spend forever rehearsing it, but that would be pointless. The most relevant point of all of this is what you got, after all.

Well, if you were to ask a person on the street, they’d likely say you got nothing. You got no material possessions or dust-covered gadgetry. You didn’t even get one of those tacky porcelain crab figures he collected. All you got was a note; but, all you needed was a note.

It’s been twenty years since all of that happened. Twenty years without Karkat; but, somehow, you can still remember his voice. You still remember the stupid things he’d done and said.

You’ve graduated from some fancy college, the name of which you’ve long since forgotten, and ended up making a decent living off of being a local musician. Sure, you’ve been given the chance to hit it big many times. You always turn them down, though.

You’re not leaving him. You didn’t then, and you still won’t. Not after all this time.

Even now, you make sure to fit a visit in at least once a week, though it’s usually more like two.

In fact, at this current moment, you happen to be doing just that. You happen to be sitting in the shade of the mausoleum a few yards away from the western edge of the familiar stone marker. In one hand, you hold a few acanthi, bound together with a bit of old guitar string. In your other hand, you hold the letter Karkat had left behind for you.

“ _To my favorite moron,_ ” it begins as it always has, though you still feel the bittersweet excitement you’d felt when you first opened it.

“ _I guess this is where I’m supposed to say some nice sentimental shit, isn’t it? I guess it is. At least, that’s what all the books say to do. You’re supposed to tell people nice shit about themselves when you die, apparently. Maybe you can throw in a few jabs at the fact that the people you address are probably going to continue to neglect their personal faults and deplorable hygiene even after a note from a dead fucker tells them not to…_

_Well, I guess it doesn’t matter which is true. They’re both equally stupid ideas. As for me, I think that telling the straight-up-the-ass truth is the best policy. Unfortunately for me,this means that I actually have to be nice to you for the rest of this thing._

_So, to kick things off the metaphorical tee, I have to admit you’re pretty cool. I mean, you kind of suck. You suck like one of those fancy vacuums that British people tend to do the advertisement narration for; but, you’re still cool. You’re cool in this weird, fuck-up kind of way._

_Other than that, the only really fucking huge thing is the fact that… How do I put this in a way that doesn’t inflate your grossly huge ego even more? I don’t think I can, so I’ll just say it like it is._

_You’re awesome. If I could stick around longer, I might even consider “going out” with you. (I think that’s what I’m supposed to say.) Really, you’re pretty fucking awesome. As much as I wanted to just drive a goddamn longsword through your insufferable guts at times, I can’t deny that I liked you. You stuck around my annoying ass longer than any one else and, if I’m being honest, I really appreciated it._

_I just completely threw that “keep a consistent tense” rule in for one hell of a fucking huge loop, but I’m not going to worry about that stupid shit at this point. I’m not rewriting this crap._

_So, yeah… That’s pretty much it. Stop watching those stupid cartoons your Bro shows you, by the way. They’re bad for your mind. They melt your think pan like a rubber tire on lava._

_Semi-sincerely,  
Karkat Vantas_

Having re-read a page of paper you’ve read countless times before, you carefully fold it up and put it back into your pocket. You then proceed to wipe away some of the freshly cut grass from the familiar stone surface beside you, revealing the precisely-carved lettering— _Karkat Vantas: Friend and son_.

Plain. That’s how he liked it. You recall that he specifically said he didn’t want any dates on his marker. They might attract gawkers and pity parties, he claimed…

You check your digital watch and drop the flowers into the built-in vase. As you do so, you notice a familiar, beat-up, grey Volvo rambling down the road. You chuckle to yourself and rise to your feet, wiping away some of the grass stuck to your hands as you do so.

“John’s on time today. I guess the world’s about to end,” you muse aloud, before turning to face the grave you’ve been sitting beside for the past hour or so. You look upon the name, enjoying the familiar sensation of sorrow-tinged joy it brings, and let forth a contented sigh.

“I should probably say this before I forget…”

The blaring of John’s car horn interrupts your actions (which could easily be interpreted as (and may even be) a bit of insane stupidity and fanciful thinking).

“Happy birthday, Karkat. John made a cake, so I ate the damned thing for you. I’m sure you understand, right? I mean, it was a pretty delicious cake. Buttercream frosting and all that fancy shit…”

Another beep of the car horn drags you away from your monologue.

By now, you realise that John’s probably going to kick your ass if you don’t hurry; thus, you begin your walk back through the cemetery. 

**Author's Note:**

> **Commentary and feedback welcome!**


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